


Freedom (Is Just Another Word for Nothing Left to Lose)

by NomadicSecret



Category: Leverage, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NomadicSecret/pseuds/NomadicSecret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do art thieves, defense contractors, a billionaire and his assistant whose deaths have been greatly exaggerated, and insurance investigators have in common? Sif and Darcy will let you know when they figure it out.</p><p>*No prior knowledge of the Avengers characters or the Leverage(ish) universe I plunked them down in should be required to read this.<br/>But just so everyone's up to speed: the Avengers are a reluctant family of damaged misfits and prickly loners mostly seeking one kind of redemption or another, led by a (slightly self-righteous) guy with a serious hatred of bullies. And they're superheroes. Leverage is pretty much the same thing, except they don't have superpowers. (As such.) If Ocean’s Eleven and the A-Team had a baby, and that baby decided to be Robin Hood when it grew up, that grown-up baby would be Leverage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Experimental

(May 2012)

The wedding of her lifelong family friend, attended by dozens of people concerned at her continuing single status and recent unemployment, wouldn’t have been pleasant even if she wasn’t in love with the groom. Thor’s mother Frigga kept sending her sympathetic looks with all of the subtlety (read: none) the family was known to have. Really, it was a wonder that anyone had ever believed Loki, who was glowering in a corner, to be the biological result of Frigga and Odin. Meanwhile, nobody else seemed to have any qualms reminding her that she wasn’t getting any younger (she was only twenty-six, damnit!) and that perhaps her peculiar insistence on having a “career” was impeding her ability to attract an appropriately wealthy man. Sif sighed and slipped away from the latest concerned matron, making for the bar. A young woman was there talking to Fandaral with a bored expression. Fandaral was talking to her cleavage.

“Fandaral, my friend,” Sif said brightly. “I believe Amora was looking for you.”

“She must be devastated that Thor has wed,” Fandaral said. “Never fear, I will comfort her.” He was off, a man on a mission.

“She’ll eat him alive,” Sif assured the other woman.

“Thanks. I was about to do something that could have made anniversaries awkward. I’m Darcy.” She held out a hand and Sif shook it. “I’m Jane’s old roommate. I guess you’re with the groom?”

Sif looked over her shoulder at the happy couple. “Yes,” she agreed.

Darcy hissed sympathetically. “Oh, that sucks.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, I’m not gonna, like, tattle to Jane or Thor … unless this is still a thing, in which case I have to go kill him.”

Sif flushed in embarrassment. “It was never a ‘thing’,” she assured the younger girl.

“In that case, let’s get you incredibly drunk,” Darcy suggested.

“You can try,” Sif said. “I have the alcohol tolerance of ten men. Literally. I once drank ten men under the table consecutively.”

 

“People just don’t  _want_  Edward R. Murrow anymore,” Sif slurred sadly.

“Plenty of people didn’t want him back in the fifties,” Darcy countered.

“I just want to do  _something_ ,” Sif explained. “Something that means something. You know?”

“I just want to pay off my student loans,” Darcy replied. “I mean, maybe someday when I’m ninety I can take a job because it’s meaningful, but-”

“Are you keeping up?” Sif demanded, squinting at the other girl. She sounded a lot less drunk that Sif felt.

“Shot for shot, babe,” Darcy assured her, indicating the line of glasses.

 

Sif woke up with a pounding headache and turned deeper into the pillow with a groan. The sunlight was streaming in through open curtains and it was brutal. When she finally turned her head back with the vague idea of  _making it stop_ , she saw a bottle of water and a couple of ibuprofen sitting on the bedside table. She took the pills and drank half the water bottle before pulling the duvet over her head and going back to sleep. Her foot brushed another person’s leg, but she was too far gone to care just then.

When she woke again, it was to the noise of the shower and closed curtains. She sat up with a wince, registering her intense need to go to the bathroom, which wasn’t helped at all by the shower. Her headache had faded enough for her to begin worrying who it was she had brought back to the hotel. Or … gone back with. This wasn’t her room. An unfamiliar suitcase was open, female accoutrements strewn around. Huh. That was new. She realised that she was still wearing her (now wrinkled) dress from the night before and remembered flashes of her drunken rant about the disastrous decline of journalism the night before. The shower shut off and Darcy emerged a moment later with a towel wrapped around her.

“Oh, thank God,” Sif muttered, and dove for the bathroom before Darcy could say anything. When she came out, face washed and bladder relieved, Darcy was dressed. She offered a second t-shirt and pair of sweatpants to Sif.

“Feeling okay?” she asked sympathetically.

“Better than I was. Thanks for the water and the pills,” Sif said.

“No problem. I have mother hen tendencies. They get worse when I drink,” Darcy explained cheerfully. “How about you get a shower and we go get something greasy and delicious?”

“Darcy, I think I might love you,” Sif said, prompting a laugh.

 

“So, last night’s a little fuzzy,” Sif said, when both girls had worked through about three-fourths of their stack of pancakes, eggs, and bacon. “But I seem to remember something about student loans.”

Darcy wrinkled her nose. “Did I get into that? Sorry.”

“I’m pretty sure I did my diatribe about Murrow, so….” Sif waved her fork dismissively.

“Murrow was freakin’ badass,” Darcy mumbled around a large mouthful.

“Marry me,” Sif deadpanned. Darcy snorted. “Seriously, though,” Sif said slowly.

“Despite their occasionally idiotic tendencies, I’m firmly committed to guys. Nothing wrong with girl-on-girl, it’s just not my thing.”

“Not mine either, remember?” Sif referenced her crush on Thor. “No, I mean professionally. Be my assistant.”

“Aren’t you working freelance?” Darcy asked hesitantly.

“Yeah, but my family has more money than God and they don’t do anything worthwhile with it,” Sif waved her hand again. “You can join me on my pointless, anachronistic quest!”

Darcy set down her fork and folded her hands, looking seriously at the other woman. “Okay, are you for real right now? Also, are you still drunk?”

“Yes and no,” Sif said impatiently.

“Do you regularly invite strangers to mooch off you?” Darcy asked.

“You’re the first person I’ve met who shared my Murrow-crush, had both a realistic grasp of current events and an interest in changing them, and could drink me under the table. Actually, you’re the first person I’ve met who could drink me under the table, period.” Darcy smirked. “I’m dead serious, if you’re interested.”

Darcy hesitated. “So basically, you want to pay me to be your sidekick?”

“I wouldn’t call it  _that_ ,” Sif said.

“Oh, I’m totally cool with sidekick status. Woodward and Bernstein in heels?”

“My name goes first on the byline,” Sif clarified.

“I’m in,” Darcy said. Sif extended her hand to shake.

 

 

(Jan 2013)

Phil was shown in to Odin’s office and was instantly glad that Clint hadn’t come to the meeting. He loved his partner, but he’d put money on ‘What is it with you and guys with eyepatches?’ being the first thing out of Clint’s mouth when he met Odin. They shook hands and Phil took a seat.

“Well, sir, I’m here,” he said, when Odin didn’t speak. “Would you like to tell me why?”

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Coulson. It is a rather delicate matter. The police can be so … indiscreet, and I am hoping to resolve this privately.”

“I understand,” Phil said evenly.

“My son Thor will be heir to Asgardian Security Services,” Odin said, indicating a photo on his desk. A huge blonde man beamed at the camera, shaking hands with his father at some sort of formal event. “My adopted son Loki has taken offense. He absconded with some very sensitive materials and has threatened to use them to embarrass and discredit us. My wife is, of course, distraught. I wish Loki no harm, but he must be stopped.” Odin looked hard at Phil, who heard the unspoken  _by any means necessary_  loud and clear.

“I worked in art theft,” Phil said.

“But you have a formidable reputation for getting your man,” Odin said, just a touch of disdain at the end. “And there is some evidence that Loki has been supporting himself through forays into less reputable parts of the art world.” He hefted a file. “Everything I have on him. Will you take the job?”

“You wish for me to locate your son-”

“Adopted son.”

“-and retrieve what rightfully belongs to you, correct?”

“Correct,” Odin nodded. “On the top of the file is a contract to that effect. You may take it to review and consider if you wish. Call the legal department if you have any issues or questions.”

Phil nodded and took the file, hearing his dismissal. “I’ll get back to you soon,” he promised. It all seemed legitimate – if a little Shakespearian – but something was setting off what Clint called his ‘spidey-senses’. His instincts had served him, as Odin had alluded, very well over the years, not least in telling him that Clint, alleged art thief or not, was a good man who was being honest with Phil. Clint had retired from the carefully non-specific business in which he had engaged before meeting Phil and leading him on a merry and thankfully evidence-free chase of eighteen months. Phil had done the same, resigning from his position as an IYS insurance investigator dedicated to investigating claims and locating and retrieving lost art insured by the company. Together with Clint’s partner Natasha, they had formed Security, Human Investigation, Exposure of Lawlessness and Defense (or SHIELD), a private investigation and security firm. They designed and tested security systems and conducted investigations. Natasha had left the company two years ago, citing boredom, but she visited them frequently and remained good friends with Clint. She’d warmed significantly to Phil as it became clear that he was not only serious about Clint, but also good for him. Phil was grateful for her protectiveness, even when it was directed at him. Clint had led a hard life full of betrayal and cruelty, and he deserved ten times over every scrap of goodness the world threw his way.

 

“So?” Clint called when Phil walked in the door. “What’s the case? Three years is the fugitive anniversary, you know.” Phil followed his lover’s voice to the kitchen and stole an involved welcome home kiss.

“I think we’ve had more than enough of fugitives and tracking,” Phil said, settling behind Clint with his chin on the other man’s shoulder and his arms around his waist, content to watch him work. The trip to the States to see Odin, paid for or not, had been too damn long. Phil and Clint lived and worked out of Switzerland, having both spent most of their previous careers in Europe. Switzerland was also friendlier to the misunderstandings with certain police forces that Natasha and her partner had than their native US or her Russia, though she preferred Paris.

“You didn’t like our courtship? I thought it was romantic!” Clint protested.

“I could have done with a little less of Maria’s amusement,” Phil replied. His former partner at IYS had figured out what was going on long before Phil, and had been surprisingly supportive of the relationship.

“We’ve got, like, the best meet cute ever,” Clint said stubbornly. He’d been hanging out of a vent the first time Phil saw him, disappearing so fast and without setting off any alarms that Phil hadn’t been entirely sure he’d actually been real and not some overwork-induced hallucination with ridiculously perfect biceps and inspiring flexibility. “It’ll make a great story to tell our … people,” he finished, stumbling. Phil hadn’t thought seriously about having children since he was about fifteen, so he was continuing to pretend he didn’t know that Clint wanted to adopt.

“I don’t know about this case,” he said, changing the subject. “Something feels off. I can’t say exactly what, but….” He trailed off.

“We don’t have to take it,” Clint offered.

“That’s the thing, though – I want to.”

“Lemme see the contract after dinner, alright? I’ll make sure we’ve got some wiggle room.”

“After dinner?” Phil repeated, nuzzling at the skin behind Clint’s ear.

“Did I say  _immediately_?” Clint asked, sounding slightly breathless.

 

 

(Aug 2011)

“Thank you for seeing me, sir,” Bucky said, standing at parade rest. Some habits died hard.

“Sit down, son,” Fury barked. Bucky obeyed. “Now, what is this about?”

“Sir, my friend Steve has medical insurance through IYS, and he’s having trouble getting approval for this new procedure. I wouldn’t look for special treatment normally, but … he needs this, sir. He doesn’t have a lot of time left, and we don’t have the money to front the payment, and I just thought maybe-”

“Steve Rogers, isn’t it?” Fury interrupted, squinting down at a thick file.

“Yes, sir!” Bucky’s heart leapt.

“Says here this procedure is experimental.”

“That’s what they’re calling it, but it’s worked dozens of times. Dr. Richards has a fantastic record, 95%-”

“IYS doesn’t cover experimental procedures,” Fury said.

“But sir-”

“It’s not personal, son. It’s just company policy. Good work on that Monet in Italy,” he added. Bucky left the office in a bit of a haze, only registering his partner’s presence when grabbed his arm.

“James?” she prompted. Although she was only a decade older than his mid-twenties, she insisted she was too old to use nicknames like ‘Bucky’.

“He said no,” Bucky said dully. He felt Maria propelling him out of Fury’s waiting room and down the hall. She closed the door behind them and something shook loose inside him. He swept a stack of files off her desk and slammed his hand down onto it. “He said all the same shit that the assholes in Medical said! It’s policy, not personal – well Steve’s damn well personal to me!” he shouted.

“I know,” Maria said quietly, calmly. There wasn’t even any disapproval in her voice. She, more than most, understood families of choice. She was pretty tight-lipped about her personal life, but she’d spent Christmas in Switzerland with Bucky’s predecessor, and in the eighteen months they’d been working together she hadn’t mentioned any family other than Phil. He deflated under the weight of her understanding.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, bending down to pick up the files.

“Leave them,” she ordered gently, a hand on his back. “Take the day. Go visit Steve. I’ll finish up the paperwork on the Monet.”

“The Monet,” he laughed bitterly. “Fury said we did good work. We saved the company how much? Enough to pay for Steve’s procedure a hundred times over! We should have just fenced it.”

“ _James_ ,” Maria hissed, with a nervous glance at the door. Her phone rang and she glanced at the screen. “Go home,” she repeated more gently. “Before I change my mind.”

“Sitwell?” he asked. There weren’t a lot of things that could bring her to openly show irritation the way the FBI agent could. She raised one eyebrow, something he’d spent hours in front of the mirror trying to master. “Yeah, okay,” he agreed. “Thanks.” She smiled sadly at him before answering her phone. He’d heard her swear up and down that she didn’t have a maternal bone in her body, and his coworkers called her ‘The Bitch’ and ‘The Ice Queen’, but she’d been the best mentor he could have asked for, from her understanding of the PTSD he brought back from the Sandbox to the accommodations she made to allow him to help care for his lifelong best friend when they were stateside. He stopped by his own office on his way out and hesitated when he saw a new file on the desk. He flipped it open. Much as Maria was right about leaving work, he wasn’t sure seeing Steve right then was a good idea. He didn’t want to tell Steve that talking to Fury hadn’t worked out. Maybe he could come up with something else. In the meantime, working was just what he needed to get his mind off his own problems. He flipped open the folder. “Karaty Diamonds….” He mused aloud, scanning. “Jim Karaty, you have been a bad, bad man.”


	2. Mortal Peril

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet almost all of our ensemble. Pretty much nothing goes right and there are cliffhangers. You've been warned.

(Sept 2011)

Bucky glanced around at the other people in the gas station. The line was three deep, unfortunately, and he tugged his baseball cap down a little further. It took him entirely too long to realise that the phone ringing was his own – or was in his pocket, at least. He smiled apologetically at the gas attendant and handed over cash as he opened it.

“Hello?”

“Stop looking around you. You might as well stamp ‘fugitive’ on your forehead. The voice on the other end was a crisp, unfamiliar female one.

“What?”

“Get in your car and drive north. I’ll meet you at the first outlook.”

“Who-?”

The line went dead. He pocketed is phone and his change, flashed a nervous smile at the bored clerk, and returned to his vehicle. He sat for a moment before turning it on, evaluating his options. If the cops – or even Karoty’s Russian thugs – had gotten close enough to plant a drop phone, why bother? Why not just take him there? And really, what were his other options? Continue driving towards the border with his dwindling supply of cash in a vehicle that certainly had an APB out in the hope that his passport was somehow not flagged? He’d never really been one for a higher power, but he sent up a prayer that Maria wouldn’t get caught up in this crap. He buckled up (“Safety first!” said Steve’s voice. And wasn’t that just another gut-punch) and turned the key in the ignition. He’d go south. An outlook on a sleepy highway sounded like a really good place to carry out a hit.

The radio turned back on with the rest of the car and Janis Joplin’s voice filtered through the speakers. _Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose_.

He turned north.

 

 

Bucky was late, and Maria wasn’t known for her patience. She snatched up her phone when it rang, frowned when she saw ‘Special Agent Jasper Sitwell’ on the screen rather than her partner’s name, but took the call. She didn’t like the FBI agent, but they shared a best friend and Phil was worth the annoyance.

“Hill.”

“You sure know how to pick ‘em,” Sitwell said. From the background noise, he was in a hospital.

“Pick what, Sitwell?”

“Partners. First one runs off with a criminal you introduced him to-” Maria rolled her eyes. The introduction of which he spoke had been made in an interrogation room. “And now this one becomes a criminal.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Kid took a bribe,” Sitwell said. She hung up on him, spent five full seconds looking at her phone, and dialled another number.

“H’lo?” answered a sleep-husky voice. It was Clint, not Phil. That was just as well, really. She heard rustling. “Phil’s dead to the world and he really needs the sleep,” Clint continued, sounding more awake. “Can I get him to call you back, Maria?”

“That’s fine. I was just calling to chat.” She could practically hear the skepticism through the phone. She knew the time difference. Even if she hadn’t had years to become accustomed, she was Maria Hill, and Maria Hill didn’t make mistakes like that. “My new partner, the one I thought had promise, he took a bribe.” Clint didn’t say anything. “I thought he was a sweet kid,” she said mournfully. “A real good friend to that sick foster-brother. Paid for his treatment and everything. I guess you never can tell.”

“That’s a shame,” Clint replied. “I’ll be sure to tell Phil all about it.”

“Don’t spread it around too much,” she warned. “They haven’t caught up with him yet.”

“I understand,” Clint said. “I gotta go. Talk to you later.”

“Thank you, Clint,” she said solemnly.

 

 

(Sept 2012)

“So why’d you join the FBI?” Agent Sitwell asked. He was Steve’s partner of several months and a gut-punch of a reminder of Bucky’s betrayal. Steve’s jaw clenched reflexively. Whether or not the bespectacled man remembered, he was the one to interview Steve when Bucky fled. Steve had almost gotten to the point of forgetting.

“My father was an FBI Agent,” he replied. “All I’ve ever wanted was to be like him and take criminals off the streets.”

“How do you feel about shooting at them?” Sitwell asked. It felt like an odd time to ask the question – they were enroute to the scene of an art theft, the perpetrator long since fled.

“I don’t want to kill anyone, sir. I just don’t like bullies. I’ll do what’s necessary.”

“I believe you, kid,” Sitwell said. His eyes held much more calculation than did his demeanour. He pulled up to the site.

 

“Look who it is,” Jasper said genially. Jasper was rarely anything but genial. He and Steve were already well known in their branch as the most pleasant partners in the FBI. The room was dark, lit only by the eerie blue of the laser grid that the woman was studying. In the center was an empty pedestal.

“Lights,” she ordered. “Hello, Sitwell.” In the better lighting, Steve realised that the woman was pretty, dark-haired, and about Jasper’s age. She also looked vaguely familiar.

“Rogers, this is Maria.”

“Hill,” she provided coolly. Steve was under no misconception that she was providing additional information; she was disinviting him from using her first name.

“Where’s your partner? Or don’t you have one? Maria is one of the best insurance investigators IYS has,” Jasper continued. “It’s a damn shame everyone who works with her ends up going Dark Side.”

“Cost-cutting measure,” Maria replied crisply. “We work alone, now.”

“Fury’s just afraid of your talent for corruption,” Jasper scoffed. “Her first partner ran away with a criminal and her second _became_ a criminal.”

Steve realised with a jolt how he recognised the woman and he had to take a deep breath to stay calm. Was this why Bucky had become a fugitive? This woman, this innocuous woman? If anything, her military posture indicated to him an emphasis on rules.

“Maria, this is Steve Rogers,” Sitwell said. “He’s been with me almost a year now. Some of us know how to keep our rookies on the straight and narrow.”

“Some of us know how to stay on the straight and narrow,” Steve said bitterly. He felt Hill’s withering glare turned on him.

“Ma’am,” he said simply, his hands locked behind his back. She didn’t speak.

“So what’ve we got?” Sitwell asked finally, breaking the brittle silence.

“That is so typical of the feds,” Maria said scathingly. “Waltz in and expect to be handed the answers gift-wrapped. Say what you want about my partners, at least they were competent.”

“So competent that they failed to find the evidence to lock up one of the most notorious thieves alive and took a bribe from an utter moron to cover up one of the worst-conceived jewel heists I’ve ever seen,” Jasper countered.

“And how _are_ those cases coming?” Maria asked with a saccharine smile.

“Bitch,” Jasper muttered, and Steve’s head swung around. He goggled. Jasper usually didn’t use such terms.

“Half-wit,” she replied.

“As entertaining as the floor show is, I’d like to actually solve this crime. Might we get on with it?” asked a prim British-accented voice. “Peggy Carter, Interpol.”

“At least it isn’t Sterling,” Jasper muttered more quietly, and Maria snorted slightly in what seemed to be agreement.

“Prints on the pedestal match a Loki Asgard. Father is a Norwegian immigrant to the United States, runs a private security firm, claims he hasn’t heard from Loki in several weeks and can’t get in touch with him. He’s hiding something,” Maria reported politely.

“And how is it that the insurance investigator beat the police here?”

“IYS has a lot more to lose if the statue isn’t recovered. Millions, in fact. And we’re _very_ good at not paying claims,” Maria said bitterly.

 

 

(Feb 2013)

“Pep,” Tony cried, his voice cracking a little over the comms. Pepper didn’t have the time or breath to reassure him. Her cover had been blown and the building had a lot more security than they’d anticipated. A lot more lethal, too. It was a goddamn food company, for Christ’s sake! She ran flat-out in her heels, something she’d learned to do a long time ago that was nonetheless Not Fun. “I’m coming, baby,” he said, and she could hear the background noise of him driving like a maniac. She turned – right into a dead end. Fuck. She turned to find three men in suits pointing guns at her and smirking at their cornered prey. “Tony,” she began, but a man came out of seemingly nowhere to hit one of the suits who had their guns trained on her. He went down, and the stranger caught his gun and spun to kick the second suit, the gun and the clip flying in opposite directions. The third got an elbow in the face, and both their guns got the same treatment. Her pursuers weren’t down for the count by any means – that took another twenty seconds.

“Pepper? Pep?” she heard when the movement had stopped. Had he been speaking through it? The stranger had curly dark hair and worn, patched clothes. He was about Tony’s age, slightly taller, and broader in the shoulder. The van pulled up in front of the alley with a screech.

“Get in,” the stranger ordered.

“Who’s the new guy?” Tony demanded, the question echoing through the rolled down window and her earpiece.

“Move over,” the stranger ordered.

“Wait a sec-”

“I can get you out of the city, but only if we move fast,” he said, his body thrumming with tension.

“Tony, do it,” she ordered, scrambling over the unconscious (she hoped) men and into the back of the van. Tony shoved over to the passenger seat and the stranger got in the driver’s side.

“I know it looks like a crappy old van,” Tony began, but then they were whipping around a corner, the stranger having no trouble managing the vehicle and it’s deceptively high-powered engine. Then they were just holding on for dear life. Eventually they hit the highway, speeding out of town.

“Who are you?” Tony demanded. The stranger glanced over his shoulder at her, looking almost apologetic.

“My name is Bruce Banner,” he said. He paused. “I was hired to kill you.”


	3. Partners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have a short turnaround on this one, just take some time to edit it and post it quickly, but real life interfered. I broke my foot, and while that means a lot of sitting around, it also meant pain and hubbub and hobbling around emergency rooms and trying to convince the nurse that I was fine to walk to X-rays (she was not impressed). I also ended up deciding that a part that was here belonged in the next one, so it's a bit short. but I think after this one, everyone but Loki has been introduced, so at least there's that. Sorry for the delay. I'm afraid I can't promise to make it up with chapter 4. I don't have much of it written, but I'll try to bang it out promptly. Hope you enjoy this!

(Sept 2011)

Bucky pulled up to the rest stop to find not one of the big Russian thugs who had hung around Karaty’s office like they had an investment in the perpetuation of stereotypes, but a beautiful red-haired woman sitting on top of the hood of her nondescript car. He got out of his car, but kept it between him and the woman, speaking over the roof.

“Hello,” he said cautiously.

She smiled, and a shiver went down the back of his spine. Her smile was disarming, but his instincts were telling him that this woman was much, much more dangerous than a thug. “James Buchanan Barnes,” she said.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” he said, wearing his own mask of pretty-boy gullibility.

“Natalia,” she said simply. “The friend of a friend asked me to give you a hand, but I don’t know the details.”

“I’m in big trouble,” he admitted. “Helping me … it could get you in trouble, too.”

“Gee, I’ve never been in trouble with the law before,” she said, all doe-eyes and naiveté. “Get in the car, Barnes,” she ordered, slipping off the hood.

“The FBI-” he began, walking over towards the car.

“Regimes fall every day. I tend not to weep over that; I’m Russian. Or I was.” She waited until he was in the car to deliver this line, and laughed brightly when he froze.

“Relax, Barnes,” she said. “I’m not with Karaty.” She was driving back in the direction he’d come.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Back to LA,” she said.

“What?” he hissed.

“You know the codes and security protocols for the Getty’s new collection. I’m going to walk in and get that lovely Van Gogh.”

“That’s not going to draw attention?”

“They won’t even know. At least not until the next time it's thoroughly authenticated,” she smiled at him again, only this time it was something savage and feral and honest. Almost against his will, he found himself smiling back.

 

(April 2013)

Phil ran a hand through thinning hair. “So what you’re saying is, we have nothing.” He caught the ball Clint tossed to him automatically and sent it back across the small office to his lover, seated behind his own desk. Clint managed to play the idle game of catch while balancing perfectly on his back two chair legs.

“That one crime scene, but that lead dead-ends on the fence, who sold the statue and sent the money to an offshore account, has no idea where Loki is or even who he was.”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Okay, what about background, motive – maybe if we figure out what this guy wants, we can figure out where he’ll be.” Phil reached for the background they’d compiled.

“He and his adoptive brother appear close. Everyone says it never mattered that Loki was adopted. Thor said Loki just snapped all of a sudden.”

Something twigged in Phil’s brain, but he couldn’t put his finger on it quite yet. “There’s no indication of problems in his school history? What about mental health?”

“Far as we can tell, clean bill of health. He bounced around in high school, but Thor stuck in one place.” Clint’s delivery became more and more neutral.

“Why’d he bounce around?” Phil asked. “Troublemaker? Drugs?”

“Don’t get me wrong, he was the terror of British boarding schools, but none of this stuff is dangerous or destructive.” Clint snorted, paging through the file he compiled. “Some of it’s pretty damn funny.” Even a year ago, Clint’s mirth might have fooled Phil, but not now.

“Clint, if you want to take a step back from this one … I can take over. I can handle it,” Phil offered gently.

“Why?” Clint demanded.

“I just – some of this has to be hitting close to home, is all.”

“I can handle it,” Clint said icily.

“I never said you couldn’t,” Phil said evenly. “But you don’t have to anymore.” It was like all the air went out of Clint at once, and his chair slammed back down onto four legs as he slumped in his seat. Phil got up and moved over to sit on the edge of Clint’s desk. It surprised some people that Clint’s desk was always immaculate, while Phil’s always had stacks of files and papers and used-up pens in every nook and cranny. Maria and Natasha weren’t surprised, but _were_ amused to no end by it. Clint leaned forward, his forehead against Phil’s chest for a long minute before he sat up straight again.

“I don’t know why you put up with me,” he said, too sharp an edge on the grin he flashed. Phil frowned.

“I don’t ‘put up with you’,” he corrected. It was a conversation they’d had before, but one he anticipated having many more times. He’d say it as many times as Clint needed to hear it. “You’re the smartest man I’ve ever met,” he said solemnly. He leaned forward to brace on the arms of Clint’s chair, surrounding and looming over him. “And the bravest, and the most generous. You’re patient when you need to be and kind when you don’t need to be and anyone who didn’t see that was blind and selfish and wrong. Their actions reflect on them, not on you.” He held eye contact.

“Okay,” Clint said. He nodded slightly, and he reached for Phil’s hand instead of leaning up for a kiss, which was gratifying. Clint had a habit of derailing these sorts of conversations with sex, something it had taken Phil much too long to catch on to. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

Clint’s eyes flicked skyward. “I want to work this case,” he said instead of pursuing the topic.  

“Okay. So as far as we know, he hasn’t gone public or threatened to,” Phil slipped right back into the rhythm of work, leaning back against the desk again.

“So Odin says,” Clint said darkly, leaning back in his chair to balance on two legs again.

“But what would _he_ have to gain from withholding a ransom demand?”

“And why is Loki pulling art heists? I mean, it was nice, but if he’s got this information Odin’s so worried about, why isn’t he using it? Blackmailing Odin, or somebody else. Why risk the heist?”

“I don’t know,” Phil said. “Odin won’t pay?”

“You’d think he’d give us that lead, at least. See if we could use it to track him down.”

“Why go on the run with sensitive information and not use it?” he mused, throwing the ball up in the air and catching it himself.

Clint was scanning documents in the file for what had to be the fourth time, at least. “Wait a sec,” he said. “So Loki and Thor both did a stint in the field, right? Second in command, learning the ropes, whatever. Loki’s was only three and a half months, and he got pulled halfway through an assignment.”

“How long did Thor spend?”

“A year, initially. More after business school,” Clint recalled from memory.

“Maybe there’s something to that. Let’s find out who was in his unit. Maybe they can fill in some of these blanks,” Phil said.

“Sounds good, boss,” Clint said, flipping the file closed. He looked up through ihs lashes at Phil. “You know what else sounds good?” he asked.

“No, why don’t you tell me,” Phil replied, smiling back slowly. Sex was only concerning in the middle of talking about feelings. After feelings was fair game, and Clint had such a wonderfully inventive mind.

Two women burst into the office. “You’re the private detectives Odin hired to find Loki?” the lead one demanded.

“I’m afraid that if I was, it would be confidential. May I ask who’s interested?” Phil replied smoothly, putting on what Clint called his ‘accountant’ face without a thought and moving to sit behind his own desk. The file in Clint’s hands disappeared like it had never been there.

“I grew up with Loki and Thor. But that’s not what I’m here about.”

“I’m Darcy. This is Sif,” the other girl interjected.

“I’m Clint. Have a seat, ladies.”

“Thanks,” Darcy said pleasantly, and did so. Their conversation went entirely unnoticed by the other two occupants of the room, who had been talking over them the entire time. Clint evaluated her and her calmer friend and decided the information they might get on Loki wouldn’t be worth what she might get from the questions they’d ask.

“But there must be something!” Sif said earnestly. “Some injustice you’ve encountered but have been unable to right? Some technically legal thing that the public deserves to know?”

“You could just leave a file on your desk and take a lunch break?” Darcy suggested.

Clint snorted. “You’ve been watching too many movies.”

“It’s not like you’ve never bent the rules before,” Sif said. Clint stiffened, but she was pleading, not spiteful.

“If it’s a story they’re after, how about that friend of yours who swears that Tony Stark’s dead girlfriend tried to break into Lillian Foods?” Clint suggested, earning a dirty look from Phil.

Sif grinned at him. “Thank you!” she said, and with a bone-crushing handshake, she and Darcy swept out of the office as quickly as they had entered.

“You didn’t think to mention that he failed his third drug test that day and is now in rehab?” Phil asked.

“They’ll figure it out,” Clint said. “But they won’t be here anymore when they do.” He grinned and got up to lock the door.

“They didn’t strike me as the type to give up so easily,” Phil pointed out, pushing his chair away from his desk. “But I guess there’s nothing lost by trying.”


End file.
